Tense
by Ink On Paper
Summary: It's all about the tense . . . . Ziva struggles with the past and Tony confronts it. Tiva, naturally. Oneshot.


**A/N: I found this on my desktop as I scanned through old stories, either trying to capture my elusive muse or find some semblance of what the heck is going on. Consider it an epic fail, but I did locate this little (big, actually, kinda) oneshot. I suppose it can apply to Masquerade or the one with the North Korean assassin -I was debating on whether or not I should save this until a later date, I foresee the return of Eli David stirring up some self-confidence issues. Anyway, decided to post this in the hopes of sticking my writer's block where it belongs and reassuring whomever it may concern that I have not, in fact, fallen off the face of cyberspace and died (frankly, my excuse here is life has kept the block strong and the words at bay eveen though there is some excellent story fodder floating around . . . .) I must got to bed now for tomorrow is a Monday. Much love and keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I had a really cute one, but I'm saving it :^) So for now all you get is: I own nothing. Original, isn't it?**

"We can't do this." Her words are blunt, a dull knife, out of the blue, sideswipe.

He pauses where he stands before the television, DVD disc held gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. "What do you mean?" and he sounds like he isn't quite understanding her, a theory that is further substantiated when he seeks clarification with, "We can't do what? Watch a movie?"

"No, Tony," her voice is soft, but firm and convicted and he pauses, turning around confused. She motions with her hand, a dignified sweeping gesture that encompasses his living room, her, him, and them collectively, "_This_. We can't do _this_." _Us_.

He takes a deep breath, exhales while collecting himself from an unforeseen sucker punch. "Why?" he asks and the question is benign, indifferent, neutral.

Now she is the one perplexed. "What?"

"No," he says, approaching her slowly, cautiously, face utterly blank, "Not what; _why_? I deserve an explanation, Ziva. Why? Why can't we do this?" And his hand arcs in similarity to her previous emphasis.

With a pang he realizes how guarded her eyes have become, the caginess that's entered her mahogany gaze. And it hurts him more than her words because it has been such a long time since that wariness has occupied her face, robbing her of her innocence and aging her by centuries. "Tony, how many woman have you dated?" And his eyebrows invade upon his hairline as her words throw him once more. She sighs tiredly, "Just answer."

There's a pause as he mulls this over and he cannot help but wonder if this is some kind of test. And then he dismisses that notion because Ziva David is not that kind of woman, one to entrap him in his words. After a pause he hazards, "A lot."

"And how many of those women were killers?"

He officially has no inkling of an idea as to where this conversation could possibly be heading.

"None to my knowledge," he replies, amending, "I did go out with this paralegal chick –but that's a whole different brand of murder. . . . I don't think I understand why that matters."

She's sat down on the couch, bracing her elbows on her knees, face cradled in her hands. When she speaks, it is without looking at him, more of an addressing to the floor in a quiet voice that can only be described as small. "I have killed people, Tony," and this is scarcely a confession because he already knows . . . . "When I was held hostage, I had much time to think, too much time. I was forced to look at everything I have done in my life, every man and woman I ever killed, tortured, used. I told you that Saleem was in the right if only you looked at things from his perspective. You change one thing, believe one thing, and suddenly what is wrong is right and what was right never was . . . ." she takes a deep breath that trembles slightly and he hates where this is inevitably going, "What if I am like . . . . What if those people whose lives I took, what if they were not guilty? What if they were _innocent_? Yes, there were some who I knew, honestly _knew_, were guilty –I saw them commit the crimes they did, I saw the remains of the bodies of my friends and people I knew. I know what the bad guys were capable of –but I did not know every one of my targets. All I had was a dossier. All I had was Mossad's word. I never saw the bodies, I never saw the wreckage. I didn't meet the families of the victims, the mothers and fathers, the children and wives. I had my orders and I did what I did because I was told that they were bad people, that they were killers and murders and terrorists. I have killed for revenge, for information. I have used countless people. I have _lied_," when she raises her head and meets his eyes, he finds that hers are pleading, begging for him to understand. Her voice wavers slightly when she continues, but it doesn't stop her painful monologue, the reasoning that has been eating away at her insides. "I do not know everything there is to know about this life, I am not perfect. Therefore, likewise, I know I could not have been right about every one of my marks. At some point, Tony, I've killed the wrong person. Indiscriminately and falsely. . . . ." her voice breaks and her breath hitches in her throat and she bites her lower lip to curb her sob.

He moves toward her gingerly, willing the chill that's crept into the room to depart. He crouches before her, swallowing audibly before saying, "You were an assassin, Ziva."

"I know-"

"_Were_. It's past tense. As in, you _were_ an assassin in the past but not anymore," it is vital that she comprehends this, that she accepts this truth as what it is for once. _Please_, he begs silently, _let her get it._

"I'm a murderer, Tony." The fact is irrefutable. She is a murderer, a killer, inherently flawed and essentially evil.

He is unimpressed. "Um, no. No, you're not."

"I-" He sets two fingers on her wrist, tapping her gently, a signal to summon her back.

Tears are welling in her eyes as he talks to her softly, warm breath fanning across her skin, soft caresses on every word, "Let me ask you this, Ziva David: Do you think people can change? Five years ago, the man I was, am I the same man now that I was then?"

She looks up startled, a traitor tear escaping down her cheek at her distraction by his question. "No-"

He nods, in agreement, in denial, she isn't sure. "I was a serial dating jackass cop with a gun. I know for a fact that I don't date as loosely or as much as I used to and I like to think I'm less of a jackass." Humor is his coping mechanism, self-depreciation a tact she's seen him employ before, but this is different. He isn't making light of the situation she's landed them in, he's angling for something else, something he wants her so badly to see.

"Tony-" Does he not understand how hard he is making this?

His fingers are at her face, curling under her jaw, tilting her chin up so he can look her in the eyes. And hers are damp and shattered and his are frightened and determined as he urges her, "Listen to me. Five years ago, I was clueless. I was immature, mildly stupid, and clueless. Hell, ten years ago I was a half-beat cop babysitting drunk teenagers in a playpen! In the five years that you have known me, have I changed? Am I still-"

"A jackass?" It is a wry comment that he didn't realize he'd set himself up for, but that is the Ziva he knows peeking through. The woman that fights and argues and teases and loves. The one that pounces on any and every opportunity of a lighthearted barb.

He pins her with a look, pretending to ignore her slight even though it has given him a renewed sort of hope that perhaps he's not too late, "-the man I was then. Or am I the man I like to think I've finally become. The one who doesn't rely socially on one-nighters and frat brothers that still drink beer through a funnel?"

"You are the man you are, Tony-"

"Better or worse?" he demands.

She's bewildered and overwhelmed as she says, "You are a good person, I have told you that! And, yes, you are a better man today than you were however long ago!"

Conviction enters his eyes when he presses, "So you agree that people change? That people can change?"

And the doubt in her voice is weak at best, "I guess-"

"Ziva," he coaxes softly.

She stands up abruptly and he withdraws his hands, gives her space as she agitatedly begins to pace. "Yes! Yes! People can change! There, is that what you wanted me to say? People can change, you changed, Tony. Yes!" She whirls around to face him, expression morphing from slight hysteria to utter confusion as he stares at her, smiling.

"Okay . . . ." he says slowly, "You changed-"

"Tony, please-" She starts for the door, darts actually. And it's been so long since her last attempt at escape that he almost forgot she is a flight risk.

She was not anticipating him suddenly blocking her way, his hands coming to grip her arms, tightly, vise-like. He should shake her, she thinks, but he won't because she knows he doesn't want to hurt her.

"No. Listen to me! You are not the same woman who waltzed into the bullpen five years ago. You aren't that same woman who Gibbs couldn't trust in interrogation for fear you'd use force and get us all sued. You aren't the same woman who could calmly and unaffectedly tell some wife that her husband would never come home. You aren't that woman anymore! That summer, that first summer, you were already different, Ziva, from the cold, ninja chick I first met. You were just a girl who laughed at my bad jokes and talked during movies, not a killer, not a liaison. Do you even realize that about two years into our partnership, you quit referring yourself as a Mossad officer? Do you get it that you associated with Mossad less and less? You changed. We all did. For the better."

They stare at each other and time stretches on around them, even though it seems as if it's standing oh so very still.

"Tony," her breath, a sigh. "We cannot do this."

"Why? Because Gibbs said so? Because neither of us deserve to be happy? Am I not good enough for you, Ziva?" he honestly doesn't know what else to say. How do you talk sense to insanity?

Panic flares in her eyes at his misinterpretation and she whispers fiercely, "No! You are too good! Too good! Tony! I am a bad person! Do you realize that every man I have ever been romantically involved with has been like me? Do you understand what I am?"

He pauses, silences the words that sit idle on the tip of his tongue, further refutes to her faulted logic. He looks at her, really looks at her, and he sees her for what she is.

And she looks no different than she did yesterday.

"I don't know the number of lives you took, Ziva, and I don't know what you did or why you did it. And I won't say I don't care . . . . I don't know how many guys you've slept with, what they did, who they killed. I've met a couple and I can honestly say it was a displeasure knowing them. But I know _you_. I know _who you are_, Ziva. I know who you are and what you've done since. And I can tell you this: Those guys? Rivkin and whoever the hell else? They didn't love you. Me? I love you."

He watches her resolve crumple and dissolve around a last effort to argue her point, "I do not deserve this, Tony. I-"

His finger is on her lips, his other hand tightening around her arm. And his voice is a dangerously low growl, "Hush. I never want to hear that again, am I clear?" And there is anger in his eyes.

"But-"

He shakes his head, softens his gaze, "No buts. It's past tense. Gone. People change and we move on. You can't dwell on if you were right or if you were wrong. You are nothing like Saleem and you are nothing like your father."

She stares at him, eyes leaking and another dew drop slips down her cheek and he traps it with his thumb, banishing it away. She moves into his arms, burying her face between the junction of his shoulder and neck, inhaling. And he presses his nose into her hair, rocking her gently, blinking back the moisture stinging his eyes.

"Stick with present tense, sweetheart," he murmurs and she mumbles something into his shirt, something that makes him smile when he translates the muffled words.

"Future tense is good too, yes."

**A/N: If you like, toss me a line and let me know what you think. Together we can banish the block and locate that darned muse (I know I put it around here somewhere . . . . .)**


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